


Methods of Dance

by theplatonicnonyeah



Series: Methods of Dance [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-01
Updated: 2011-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:19:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplatonicnonyeah/pseuds/theplatonicnonyeah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who are you, John Watson? When you walk into a room people stand taller, talk smarter, make funnier jokes." <br/>A stream of consciousness. Sherlock examines his feelings for John and other things around him. Some musical theory terms used throughout text, but nothing very complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Methods of Dance

Here’s a new design, he thought.   
That haircut and the style of his clothes, it’s all so familiar. And yet, there is something else beneath the surface.

Who are you, John Watson? When you walk into a room people stand taller, talk smarter, make funnier jokes.

When Sherlock enters a room people cower and look uncomfortable.

He sees through them all, so why wouldn’t they be afraid? And what is this fear? Fear of exposure? Fear that he will reveal a truth they already know about themselves? That he will crack open their carefully constructed facades and show the real face behind the face in the mirror? 

Maybe it’s contempt. 

  
They despise him for being cleverer than them, for seeing the world as it really is and knowing when they lie and when they tell the truth and    
why    
they lie and why it matters to them.

He sees the patterns. They are so obvious it sometimes baffles him how other people can be so unaware. Unaffected.

Blind.

And then this man comes along. 

  
_He’s just like them. He is._   
  


  
But he’s not. 

Why are you here, John Watson? Why did you come now?

John Watson, the unassuming army doctor. The man with the endless patience, but also with a temper he controls to a tee until it all comes out in one long monologue of frustrated expletives.

John Watson, the loyal friend.

  
_Friend?_   


  
Are we more than friends? Sherlock asks. He says it out loud, but since there is no-one else in the flat just now, he receives no reply. 

What is a friend?  

Sherlock doesn’t remember having friends, the way other people fondly reminisce over school days and summer holidays. He remembers observing other children at play and wondering how it worked. What did they do? Together? Did they catch butterflies to pin and mount, but first to watch slowly die inside a glass jar with a little ball of cotton soaked in ether?  Did they take long walks in the woods looking for dead birds to dissect with a twig (because it was the closest thing at hand that would serve as tweezers) once the Swiss army knife had cut through the little carcass? 

And when people grew up, sometimes they kept their childhood friends. Why? What purpose did they serve, apart from nostalgic reveries and silly banter?

And yet, Sherlock himself had called John a friend. 

Once. 

To someone else he once thought was a friend, but who turned out to be just like the rest of them. Laughing behind his back, calling him a freak. Sometimes even laughing right in his face.

John had corrected him. He was Sherlock’s colleague. 

A door had closed inside Sherlock’s heart.   
  
Another door opened and then closed again. Downstairs. 

John was home.

Apparently, home is where the heart is, but Sherlock didn’t have a heart - so where did that leave him? 

  
_Was John his heart?_   


  
It wasn’t possible for another human being to be an internal organ. That was a ridiculous notion! Although some scientific research had claimed that transplant patients may be able to inherit their organ donor’s memories. 

Memories, snap shots, souvenirs.

A camera. Sherlock didn’t own a camera. He didn’t see the point in preserving “special moments” for posterity. He stored everything he needed in his head, the hard drive, a library of useful data organised by topic with separate boxes for interesting connections, associated sub-categories, possible trivia that might come in handy, details, smells, shapes, colours. 

Suddenly he became aware that John was in the room, standing right opposite him, talking.

\- Ah, John! He exclaimed, somewhat to his own surprise and sprang up from the sofa. He didn’t really have a plan for how to continue this line of thought and John seemed taken aback by the sudden outburst. 

  
_An interruption._   


\- You interrupted me, John said. Did you even hear what I said?   
\- Yes. 

  
_No._   


_  
Oh.   
_

The rhythm was all wrong. They were already dancing out of time, tugging and pulling at each other. 

\- You are angry with me, Sherlock said.   
\- Oh, so you noticed that? John’s voice went up one pitch.

Many languages use pitch and intonation to denote different meanings to a word that is spelled the same way. In fact, some languages are considered almost musical, because to an outsider it may appear as if the people speaking are in fact singing. And here was John, not quite singing, but making good use of his vocal chords. It was like an opera, in which the hero tenor expressed his undying love and devotion to the doomed soprano heroine. Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh, it just bubbled up from inside him. John stopped abruptly in the middle of a word, his mouth still open. He closed it and opened it again, but for a moment no new words came out.

The human face has more than 20 different muscles. John was the master of every single one, using them at will to convey his feelings, even when he was being quiet. In a split second Sherlock could determine whether John was frustrated with a colleague at work, happy that his favourite TV show would be on in a few minutes, sad that his sister had once again fallen off the wagon.     
  
But John had another face. A face he revealed only sometimes. It was a face that Sherlock could not read as easily as the others. It appeared when he caught John off-guard, most usually when they were alone at home in the flat. He would suddenly become aware of being watched and would look up to meet John’s eye. For a moment there would be something he could not decipher.   
  
\- Sherlock, are you even listening to me? Is there any bloody language I can use to get through to you?

The word ‘language’ is derived from the Latin _lingua_ , which means ‘tongue’. John’s tongue would fit perfectly into Sherlock’s suprasternal notch, that dip between his angular clavicles at the base of his throat. 

\- I need to know. Were you just going to leave...me here? John said in a low voice.

The pause between the words ‘leave’ and ‘me’ intrigued Sherlock. It was like an unexpected fermata in the middle of a melodic passage, creating a strangely suggestive syncopation in this faltering dance of theirs. 

He wanted to reach out his hand and touch John, to draw him in closer and make the rhythm right again. The dissonance and sharp pizzicato picking at his brain, it had to stop. He searched for a sign in John’s face. There must be something there to tell him what the next step should be. A movement from minor to major, a modulation in key that would let him know what to say. Or perhaps there was nothing much to say, but:  

\- I don’t see what difference it would make.

The instant they left his lips, Sherlock wanted to push the words back into his mouth again. John let out a dry-sounding laugh and looked away. The room fell silent.

  
_Dust._   


  
Tiny particles of dust floated around in the ray of light that slipped through the half-drawn curtains.

The floorboard creaked as Sherlock shifted his weight.

John would not look at him.

Somewhere in the street outside a woman laughed.

There was a small indentation on John’s right cheek. At first Sherlock had thought it was a dimple, but after carefully observing it for some time he deduced that it must be a chicken pox scar. He would like to put the tip of his tongue right there and taste it. Taste John.

  
_Look at me._   
  
John.

But perhaps it was better this way? He would leave and come back - of course he would come back, he always did - and everything would be like before. Sherlock would sit in his chair and sometimes become aware of John watching him, occasionally acknowledging it, but more often just relishing it in secret. 

And the longing to touch would go away. Eventually. It always did. It had in the past. With others, who were just like John, but still not quite like him. It would be better this way. No distractions, just science and facts. 

  
_Morendo._   
  
The music faded away. 

Sherlock slowly turned to face the door and began walking away. With each step he took down the stairs his heart - his heart! he had a heart! - felt heavier and heavier.

Wet sand.

For every step he sank deeper and deeper into wet sand.

It closed in on his body, compressing his lungs, filling up his mouth.

 

  
_Drowning, drowning._   


  
Then out of the blue - his name! 

He stood transfixed, his right hand closing around the metallic cold and perfectly rounded shape of the door handle.

Quick footsteps followed: John running down to stop him, to stop him from drowning.

John’s arms around him.

And when suddenly he found that he could breathe again, he inhaled sharply.

His body relaxed into John’s hold and he slumped forward, immediately bumping his forehead against the door.   
\- Ow!   
A giggle, John’s sweet giggle. Honey dripping from his lips.   
\- Here, let me, John turned him around and raised himself up on tip-toes to kiss Sherlock’s forehead.

Gently.

Lovingly.


End file.
